


Inappropriate

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-09
Updated: 2009-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time Rodney and Sheppard had sex—well, hardly sex, really, more like rough, shared hand-jobs in a cave on M9R-221 while hiding from the human flesh-eating aboriginals—Rodney figured it was one of those pointless military rites of passage, like short-sheeting someone's bed or making them dig big holes just to fill them up again. Only a lot more pleasurable, of course.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

The first time Rodney and Sheppard had sex—well, hardly sex, really, more like rough, shared hand-jobs in a cave on M9R-221 while hiding from the human flesh-eating aboriginals—Rodney figured it was one of those pointless military rites of passage, like short-sheeting someone's bed or making them dig big holes just to fill them up again.

Only a lot more pleasurable, of course.

They'd squirmed into the low, dimly-lit space, their breathing forced quiet, and had been lying there, pressed awkwardly together for long minutes, when Sheppard reached out, the movement inept like he was losing his balance, only to grab Rodney at the last second, high up on his thigh right next to his balls. Rodney was no fool, though, and rightly interpreted the cheesy maneuver as Sheppard making his move at long last.

Rodney immediately reached out in return, cupping the warm mound of Sheppard's cock, and Sheppard made a startled noise and then groaned, a low, raspy sound that made Rodney's dick jerk against his zipper.

Thence proceeded the fondling, and frantic unzipping and jerking off. If Rodney hadn't been certain that every crackle of twigs heralded the return of the natives with their filed teeth, Wraith masks and wigs made out of dried corn-silk, he would have rated it very high on his list of man-sexual exploits. Not that the list was very long at all. But he had, on occasion, dabbled with eccentric, sex-starved geeks when he was in a similar predicament, and had never enjoyed those encounters half as much as the harsh stroke of Sheppard's calloused gun hand.

There was a lesson in there, somewhere, but Rodney didn't want to know it. And since they never talked about it, it didn't matter.

:::

The second time Sheppard jumped him wasn't until months later, after Sheppard returned from a near-suicidal jumper ride. Rodney was weaving next to him down the corridor, both of them sleep-deprived, starving of hunger, and, apparently, horny as multi-peckered owls, because all Sheppard had to do was nudge against him in the corridor and wrap one arm around Rodney's waist to stabilize him, and Rodney could barely restrain himself long enough to drag Sheppard into a supply closet stacked with spare food trays before jumping him in return.

They didn't kiss. Sheppard didn't try, and anyway Rodney would have told him he didn't kiss men. The idea was a little repulsive in general, and in specific, with respects to Sheppard, seemed a little dangerous. Well, and...girly. He knew Sheppard wouldn't appreciate it.

Rodney did, however, give a half-decent blow-job, if he said so himself, and apparently Sheppard agreed, if his desperate-sounding, stifled grunts were anything to go by.

Sheppard didn't return the favor, which was disappointing, but he licked his palm, his eyes ducking behind his lashes, and stroked Rodney with a wet, twisting grip while he fondled Rodney's balls.

Rodney loved having his balls played with. He climaxed in no time at all.

Afterward, it was the old 'scrub off with crumpled Kleenex and check the hall before exiting separately' routine. By the time they were seated with Teyla at dinner it was like the whole thing never happened.

:::

Later that week, lying on his bunk with his laptop propped on his chest, Rodney read over Sheppard's illicitly-obtained service record, trying to decipher his past experience as interpreted through the history of his postings. Was he kicked out of Afghanistan for commandeering that chopper to rescue his buddy, or was it _because_ he would commandeer a chopper to rescue a buddy? Or maybe not just a buddy?

Reading further back, Rodney found reference to some question about Sheppard's marriage—Sheppard had been married!—the marriage happened before his permanent change of station, so his wife should have been covered by the orders, but there was some argument the first wedding wasn't quite legal (Vegas. _Honestly_ ), and the second, civic wedding occurred too late to have her moving expenses paid for.

Rodney wondered if they'd rushed to marry because John knew he was about to get ordered overseas.

He also wondered when he had started thinking of Sheppard as John.

:::

The third time wasn't even sex, just a little bit of overenthusiastic fondling on Sheppard's part. It was on a stupid planet, with very stupid people who had very stupid ideas about abducting Rodney and incarcerating him in their unpleasant-smelling basement boiler-room-cum-laboratory. They affixed a shackle and chain—a _chain_ , for God's sake—to his left ankle and poked at him with spears—well, pointy sticks, anyway—in hopes of forcing him to repair their failing communication system.

Apparently they had inherited it from an Ed Wood film. It was constructed entirely of vacuum tubes and copper wires and voltaic batteries that would have had old Alessandro cringing in profound, indelible shame.

Rodney fixed their system only to break it intentionally, again and again, in a calculated delay tactic. That way, he kept the poking to a bare minimum until Sheppard and team could track him down and rescue him in an appropriately daredevil manner.

They didn't disappoint. Sheppard must have used a dab of C-4 on the door mechanism, because after a surprisingly quiet _whump_ the door was kicked open and he and Teyla and Ronon rolled in. Ronon nailed both of Rodney's guards with his stunner while Teyla held the exit and Sheppard located the keys to Rodney's shackle.

John didn't look up as he freed Rodney's ankle, but his fingers lingered for a moment on the circle of bruises that Rodney planned to bitch about all the way back to Atlantis. And later, when John assisted him up the rusty iron ladder that led back to the surface, his hands were most definitely placed inappropriately on the cheeks of Rodney's ass to give him that oh-so-helpful push.

So, that evening, after a check-up and obtaining extra ibuprofen from Carson, Rodney tracked Sheppard down in his quarters. He was in the middle of cleaning his guitar, and looked up in surprise when Rodney keyed his way in.

"McKay! There's this thing called knocking—"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry to interrupt you in the middle of—" Rodney waved his hand at the cloth Sheppard was cradling around the neck of the guitar, "—your guitar-fondling ritual. How embarrassing." Rodney most certainly didn't blush as he considered what else he might have interrupted John in the middle of.

He walked over to where John seemed frozen on the edge of the bed. He was staring up at Rodney with something in his eyes—lust, probably, although there seemed to be an element of chagrin, perhaps because John was accustomed to being the aggressor, and this time it was Rodney.

But just as Rodney started to sit beside him, John leaped up and walked away to put his guitar back on its stand. He glanced down and sideways, not quite looking at Rodney.

"Look, McKay, you can't keep doing this."

Rodney was stunned. "What—me? _I'm_ not the one who's been—" Rodney gestured helplessly, "With the grabbing and the inappropriate touching—"

Sheppard spun around. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"On the ladder this morning, Colonel," Rodney said stiffly. "Your hands were—" He made a squeezing motion.

"Jesus Christ. I was _helping_ you."

"Helping yourself, more like. I realize—I've been told my derriere is temptingly apple-shaped—"

John made a choking noise.

"—but that's no excuse!" Rodney said, pointing his finger.

"McKay. I was _not_ —"

"You were so."

"Was _not_."

"Were _so_!"

"Was—" John blew out a sigh and rubbed his hand over his stupid hair. "Look, whatever you think—"

"I think you were fondling my ass—"

"What _ever_ , Rodney. You can't just—I'm not—I'm the freakin' military commander! Of the military! You can't just drag me into supply closets and give me blow-jobs." Sheppard's face was bright red at this point, his ears positively glowing. "I mean, not if it's just—"

"What? Just what?"

"Nothing."

"So, that's it? You lead me on, get me all hot and bothered—"

"What are you, the prom king?"

"And you're a prick-tease."

Sheppard's face closed up tight. "You'd better go."

"No, we're not finished." Rodney crossed his arms.

Sheppard straightened, and, _oh_ —maybe Rodney really had better leave. It was in his best interests not to suffer more hematomas before his last had even healed.

"I'll just be going then," he said hastily, hurrying toward the door.

:::

Rodney couldn't believe that was it, though. He bet himself the last of his Tim-Tams that Sheppard wouldn't be able to keep his grubby mitts off of him for more than a day.

Sure enough, Sheppard leaned a little too close behind him the next morning when Rodney was examining the amazing new console they'd discovered in Tower Eight. Rodney gave Sheppard an arch look and said, "Do you mind?"

Sheppard's eyes slitted, and he backed off with a twist of his mouth.

Then, not even two hours later, when the console started beeping and shooting beams of light, Sheppard grabbed Rodney and pulled him down just outside the doorway. And Sheppard's thigh was _pressing against Rodney's_ , right on top of him, with Sheppard making as if he hadn't noticed.

"That's really inappropriate, don't you think?" Rodney yelled over the beeping and the increasing whine.

Sheppard grimaced _huh?_ and jerked when Rodney grabbed his leg pointedly.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Sheppard said. "We're in a crisis situation here, McKay. Could you keep your mind—"

"When are we _not_ in crisis, I ask you? That doesn't mean you have to manhandle me and rub against me in an inappropriate fashion—"

A small explosion interrupted him, and a cloud of dust bloomed into the corridor just past his nose.

Sheppard coughed and waved his hand. "So much for our new food replicator."

"We are _not_ calling it that."

"Right now I'm calling it toast." Sheppard pushed himself up and started to offer Rodney a hand, then drew it back with a wince. Rodney ended up having to haul himself up from his awkward crouch using the edge of the door.

Sheppard called Elizabeth on his radio to give her the bad news about the reconstitutor—a more appropriate name, really, since what it did was break down base ingredients into their composite molecules and then reconstitute them as whatever you could program—muffins, pudding, _schnitzel_.

Or an endless supply of Tim-Tams. Which, hey, Rodney still owed himself the remaining packet, because Sheppard had _definitely_ been touching him again.

:::

Unfortunately, that was the last time Sheppard did so for a while. It was like he was a magnet suffering reverse polarity—every time Rodney came close, Sheppard would rebound to a minimum safe distance, which apparently had been set to one meter.

Rodney wasn't sure where Sheppard had obtained his tolerance measurements, but that seemed excessively far. Because after a while, Rodney found himself getting a little irritated at how careful Sheppard was being. It wasn't like Rodney had the cooties, for God's sake. Yes, he had perhaps been a little forceful in pointing out Sheppard's advances, but that was no reason to go overboard and insist on sitting diagonally at mess, so their knees could no longer bump, or suggest that Ronon take over training Rodney on the shooting range, or any of the other little avoidance maneuvers Sheppard had taken up practicing.

And Rodney would never admit it, but he kind of missed having Sheppard leaning just so over his shoulder or planting a hip against Rodney's desk right by his hand.

"Okay, look," Rodney said, stomping into Sheppard's quarters about a week later. Unfortunately, he'd had to take too much time bypassing the door lock, because Sheppard was already on alert and standing behind his bed with his arms crossed.

"What can I do for you, Rodney?"

"Stop that. You know what you're doing, and it's driving me absolutely nuts."

"What's that?" Sheppard said, and: "Ah-ah, stay right where you are," when Rodney started to circle around the bed.

"Don't be absurd. We can't have an adult conversation shouting across the room."

"Is that what this is?"

"No, actually, this is incredibly, moronically infantile."

"I'm with you, there."

"If you'll just—" Rodney moved again, and Sheppard stepped back, his leg bumping the nightstand, making Rodney shout, "This is ridiculous!"

Letting his arms drop, Sheppard sat down on the edge of his bed, his back toward Rodney, and said, sounding tired, "Look, what do you want from me, anyway?"

"What do I want? What I _want_?" Rodney paused. "What _do_ I want?"

"I wish to hell I knew."

And it hit Rodney then—just how badly he wanted Sheppard to be in his space again, as if the air around him had been too damned thin and empty these past few days.

But Sheppard said, "Look, I know I should've stopped it the first time. Should have said something."

"But you were the one—"

Except, it was like something had stripped the mute control from Sheppard's mouth, because he just kept talking right over Rodney. "And then it happened again, and I'm sorry, but you were on your _knees_ ," Sheppard swiped at his mouth and then turned his head. "But that's not what I'm about, Rodney. I knew plenty of guys who went in for that, did that buddy-fuck thing or picked up someone on overnight pass, but to me it was never worth the risk."

"You mean you didn't—?"

" _No_. Jesus, haven't you been listening?"

"But you—in the cave—"

"What?" Sheppard said, sounding absolutely exasperated. "You mean when we were almost about to be munched on by cannibals and you decided that was the perfect time to grab my dick?"

"Oh. _Oh_." A wash of pure embarrassment rose over Rodney's face. "Then you don't—you didn't want it. Want _me_ ," Rodney corrected himself viciously, because might as well make the humiliation complete.

Only, Sheppard had stood up again and was drifting toward him, one palm held out. "Don't. That's not what I said."

"You said—"

"I _said_ it wasn't worth the risk, not just to—" Sheppard scrunched up his face. "Jesus. Don't make me say this."

"Say what?" But Rodney's heart was thumping oddly. "What would make it worth it?"

Sheppard gave Rodney a hunted look, his cheeks reddening with a painful-looking blush. And suddenly Rodney had it all in his hands, like the first time he'd solved a Rubik's Cube at age nine—why, in spite of the way Sheppard stiffened up when other people touched him, he still reached out to Rodney all the time like it was nothing. Sheppard's hand on his shoulder patting him with approval, on the small of his back pushing him along—it wasn't inappropriate after all. Sheppard thought it was, though, for a whole different reason, one Rodney had never had the balls even to consider.

"What would make it worth it, John?" Rodney repeated, taking a step forward, and this time it was like their polarities were set just right, because John blinked and swayed forward, his face losing that hunted edge.

" _You_ could," Sheppard said hoarsely, and his mouth twisted.

Rodney couldn't stand it. He had to do something to wipe that expression from John's face. So he said, "Yes. Okay, yes," and nosed in to kiss him before either of them could panic and back away.

John's lips were stiff under his, and Rodney felt John's lashes fluttering against his cheeks, but then John's mouth moved, and his hand cupped the back of Rodney's head, holding him in place.

He should have kissed John the first time. That very first time, he should have done this, because when Rodney brushed the tip of his tongue against John's lips, John just melted open with a soft moan, as if he'd been waiting, as if he'd been wanting this.

Rodney felt the sandpapery scrape of John's stubble under his palms—kissing wasn't particularly girly after all, he thought, and realized he'd reached up to hold John's face in his hands. John's cheeks were hot with a blush, and Rodney felt himself blushing too. This was undeniably weird. Somehow sucking John's cock wasn't nearly as intimate as sucking on his tongue. Rodney had to smile at the oddness of it, and it made John pull away. Rodney's eyes opened.

"Don't fuck with me, McKay. Don't fuck with me," John said low and fierce, his eyes a little wild.

"I'm not!"

Sheppard frowned and studied him for a moment.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Rodney said, and dropped to his knees. "I'm not—" John's belt buckle and pants parted under his hands, "—fucking with you. At least, not in any way you wouldn't want me to, and I can think of an awful lot of ways you might like if you let me." And then Rodney's mouth was busy sucking in the velvety head of John's cock, so plump and full and hard for him. Rodney smiled again, a little more comfortable with this, even though he loved John's mouth—God, the man could kiss.

Right now, though, John's hand was in his hair, the warm palm nudging him gently, in direct contrast to the roughness of John's voice moaning, "Yeah, God. Your mouth. Jesus, Rodney—"

Rodney had always loved this, the warm, heavy slide of a cock in his mouth, even though he'd always thought there was something a little wrong with him for loving it so much. But John seemed to appreciate his hard-won skill a great deal. He was grunting and shivering, and Rodney rubbed his thumb at the join of John's hip, trying to calm him.

"Rodney," John gasped, like he was dying, like he was watching _Rodney_ die, and that was when Rodney closed his eyes and accepted how totally and utterly screwed he was, because he would do anything to hear John say his name like that for the rest of their natural lives, however brief that might be.

Then John's hand moved to Rodney's shoulder and clenched hard, and he came in heavy, warm spurts across the back of Rodney's tongue, his hand squeezing over and over. "God. Oh, God," John said finally and slid down to his knees in front of Rodney.

"You're good at that," John said breathlessly, looking dazed.

"I'm good at everything," Rodney said, making John's mouth lift in a half-smile. Rodney had to kiss him again, even though his dick was trapped in a fold of his pants and likely to snap in half at any moment. "Touch me," Rodney said. Well, begged, not to put too fine a point on it, but John was already reaching for him, and Rodney helped, getting his zipper down, shoving this pants and shorts off his hips, and then John pushed him back to the floor and lay beside him. He licked his palm wet, eyes on Rodney the whole time, and took Rodney's cock in his warm, slippery grip.

"Christ." Rodney arched his back and then shoved up with his hips, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot sluttish with his pants around his knees, but nothing had ever felt better than John's hand on him. Except he wanted more—he wanted John's mouth, that sly, insolent mouth, and Rodney gasped, "You could, you know, if you wanted—not that this— _Oh_ , and that, do that again—but if you wanted you could—"

John slowed his hand, and Rodney opened his eyes to find him lifting his eyebrow.

"—Suck me?"

John licked his lips, "I—sure, yeah, okay," and kissed Rodney again, one deep, delicious kiss, and then he curled over Rodney's hips and started to lean down.

"Wait—not like that." Because Rodney wanted to see, he _needed_ to see this, and his pulse was throbbing in his dick so hard he knew he wouldn't last, so it had to be _just right._ He pushed at John's shoulders until he turned onto his other side, and— "Yeah, like that. I want to watch."

John's ears turned pink, but he gamely tilted his head, shooting a glance at Rodney under his lashes, and then leaned down, and his tongue came out to lap at Rodney's cock.

Rodney shoved the heel of his hand against his mouth because— _God_ —he was about to make a really embarrassing sound. John's eyes crinkled and he stroked again with his tongue, wetting Rodney's cock with little cat-licks that were likely to drive Rodney absolutely out of his mind. And then John's mouth opened and eased over the crown of Rodney's cock, mouth rippling over the flared lip and then back up again, while below his hand started moving.

John didn't take much in, but watching the head of his cock disappear into John's mouth over and over—like the very best kind of porn, like Rodney's favorite nighttime fantasy—made Rodney whine a desperate warning, and then he was coming, his back arching, his balls throbbing, and he forced his eyes open to watch himself spurt over John's open mouth and slicked tongue.

"Jesus. Jesus God," Rodney moaned, pulsing again with the firm stroke of John's hand.

"Okay, okay," John said breathlessly, sounding like he had when he'd just figured out how to fly the jumper. And then Rodney got it, and part of him cringed up in self-disgust, because John hadn't been kidding about not taking risks. He really hadn't before, and then Rodney had treated him like a back-room twinkie. But Rodney had just assumed—with the slouching, and the way his pants slipped, and the slow, lazy grins—

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling on John's shoulder.

"What for?" John's face lost that delighted, open look and turned wary.

"No! Not for—I'm glad about this. Really, this whole thing—" Rodney waved his hand to encompass their half-dressed, sweaty bodies, "—well, except for the floor, of course. My back has regrets about that. But I loved it, love-love this—" Rodney swallowed. "—you."

John ducked his head, but not before Rodney saw the wide smile. Bright and warm, without the usual load of irony weighting the corners of John's mouth.

 _God._ "I'm an idiot," Rodney whispered roughly, "A Stanford-Binet double-digiter. So, I'm sorry about before. Is all I meant."

"Oh, I don't know, Rodney," John drawled slowly while dragging his lips against Rodney's stomach right below his belly-button, making him shiver. "I wouldn't kick you out of Mensa."

"I remind you you're still not _in_ Mensa to kick me out."

John's lips curved in a smile, and then he plopped onto his back next to Rodney, their shoulders overlapping. "Crap. The floor is too hard and my bed is too narrow."

"There's a set of residential quarters in Tower Eight with huge beds. I, er, saw them on the way to the replicator lab." When Rodney had been tempted, just for a second, to drag Sheppard into one of them for a quick hand-job. _God. An idiot. No doubt about it._ "That might be best—to meet there, since the area is unoccupied and off the 'to be explored' list."

"Sounds good." John stretched, arching his back, and then turned and curled up against Rodney's side, resting his head on Rodney's shoulder as if he were going to sleep. As if he wanted to cuddle, for crying out loud.

 _Impossible. Lieutenant Colonel Cuddler._ The cognitive dissonance made Rodney's head spin.

But then John's arm wrapped over Rodney's waist, and his lips moved against Rodney's chest with just the merest whisper of sound. Rodney's name, and something else that made Rodney's face heat.

He was still smiling when he fell asleep.

  
_End._


End file.
